


I don't mind

by Junejuly15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Kissing, Love, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Stag Night, The Sign of Three Spoilers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:20:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/pseuds/Junejuly15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stag night in 221B and what could have been...</p><p>Inspired by The Sign of Three and a certain promo picture - Beware of spoilers for The Sign of Three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I don't mind

'Am I the current king of England!'

Not a question, but a statement so full of itself that it had its own drunken exclamation mark.

John snorted sweetly, 'You know we don't have a king.'

'We don't?'

'Nope.'

They were getting nowhere with their game and quite frankly John was fast losing interest. He tried to squint at the name Sherlock had scribbled on a Rizla paper and after three giggly attempts had managed to attach to his forehead, but of course he failed miserably. Judging by what Sherlock had just offered as a solution he was not faring better - obviously he had no clue as to _who he wa_ s either.

John sighed and placed his half-empty whisky tumbler on the side table. He sat forward, the abrupt movement making him woozy. Inwardly cursing the numerous shots he had stealthily added to their pints he closed his eyes for a second, trying to domineer those parts of his brain and body currently unwilling to follow his drunken lead.

When John opened his eyes again, blinking, his gaze was irresistibly drawn to two long, lean, trouser-clad legs right in front of him. Without a trace of hesitation he shuffled forward a bit more and placed his right hand on one of those rather extraordinary legs. He snorted again, astonished.

'I don't mind!'

There was no reaction to this admission, and so he left his hand where it was, warm and soft on the fabric of the trousers, right above Sherlock's knee. John leaned forward and squinted at his hand, marvelling at the connection it had so innocently made.

'I really, really don't mind,' he mumbled, an amazed, but joyful tone to his voice.

Tenderly his hand caressed the soft fabric, his fingers moving in shy circles first, but then travelling boldy upwards along the muscular leg. He liked the strength and the tension he felt underneath his fingers, he liked the way Sherlock spread his legs, making it quite natural for John's hand to move and glide over the fabric.

When Sherlock huffed John looked up, smiling, and was rewarded by the sweetest, drunken lopsided grin.

'Neither do I,' Sherlock softly slurred and leaned forward to place his hand on John's, completely covering it.

John sharply sucked in his breath, his gaze never leaving Sherlock's eyes. With a grunt Sherlock sat forward a bit more, his fingers sliding over the back of John's hand before he intertwined their fingers. It felt natural, it felt right and John enjoyed the warmth enveloping them both. The air was electric, filled with drunken boldness, filled with the bravery of the here and now, filled with promises and no regrets.

Slowly John extricated his hand from Sherlock's which earned him a little gasp of surprise and indignation and so he quickly recompensated the loss by letting him hold his left hand. He did not know why, but the need to touch more of Sherlock was driving him almost out of his mind now and so he placed his touch-deprived right hand firmly on Sherlock's shoulder, seeking more connection, seeking to draw him closer.

The soft, but adamant pressure on his shoulder and his own uninhibited and blatant need made Sherlock lean forward expectantly. In their inebriated haze they slightly miscalculated and only their foreheards connected, bumping together and John giggled drunkenly. A lovely sound, reverberating through Sherlock's mind and heart and bubbling to the surface as his own drunken mirth. They both giggled, amazed at the closeness of the other and spurned on by the unfathomable possibilities of this moment.

John fell silent first and slowly turned his head to rub his cheek against Sherlock's face, stubble pleasantly tickling him. Traces of smoke, beer and the fug of the various pubs they had graced with their visit clung to Sherlock's skin, but underneath there was something else, something much more exciting. Widening his nostrils John inhaled, making out a mixture of something sharp, like a chemical, plus the expensive aftershave Sherlock used, but underneath it all was the arousingly pure smell of his skin. John's tongue darted out and licked across Sherlock's cheekbone before his lips connected with the soft, pale skin.

Sherlock's grip on John's hand intensified. He shuffled forward, wanting more of what he was shown, more of what he was given, just more, and he needed to be closer. Sherlock tipped his head and their lips met in a clumsy, awkward kiss, lips bumping, teeth scraping and unexpectedly this set them off again, making them giggle helplessly like schoolboys, their foreheads pressed together, their noses touching and their breath and scents mingling excitingly.

'John ...' Sherlock slurred, but John cut him off.

'Shhh ... don't ... just don't.'

Sherlock obeyed and nodded eagerly.

He understood, yes, but what was more, he was very aware, even in this drunken state, that it was better not to clarify, better to shun away from potentially destructive words. Oh, he was so quick to obey because he knew that he would take every tiny bit of drunken intimacy any time, and if that was all he would ever get from John, a drunken John, he would cherish it like a sad, pathetic, loyal, beaten dog would cherish the one tender touch from its cruel owner. This was selfish, obviously, and maybe it was wrong, but right now he was beyond caring about later, about tomorrow, about Mary, about anything. The reason why he would take this drunken haze, these kisses and all they entailed regardless of consequences was because he so deperately craved this - far, far too much.

John nodded, a knowing smile plastered onto his stupidly handsome face, and this time it was Sherlock who set the pace and brought their lips together. Still awkward, but adamant to make it work, they kissed and Sherlock tasted the evening on John and when he parted his lips he realised with awe that John followed his every move, just as eager and willing. Their kisses intensified, their moaning became more pronounced and their hands took all the liberties they knew they could get away with tonight and tonight only. The atmosphere in the room changed and the air around them shifted, the warmth intensifying and growing more familar, like a scent, like a perfume they both would be wearing from now on ...

'Which of you is Sherlock Holmes?' a shrill voice suddenly demanded.

John opened his eyes, broke off and blinked at Sherlock who looked dishevelled and ever so sweet, a grin on his beautiful face. Slightly dizzy John sat back in his chair, grabbing the cushion to cover his midsection. He swallowed around the little rest of sobriety that was left in him and with a silly wolf whistle he pointed at Sherlock. Both of them smiled drunkenly at the young woman in a nurse outfit who had walked in on Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson kissing in front of their fireplace.

Sitting back in his chair, involuntarily creating more distance, Sherlock was suddenly sober enough to think and to file away what had just occured. And with an infallible sense of finality he knew to file this occurrence away as a one-off, a precious, but solitary memory to pour over in the days and months and years to come.

Sherlock cleared his throat, shifting in his chair, taking a moment. When he felt composed enough he stole a glance at John who seemed to be focusing completely on the young woman. He looked happy and content and entirely undisturbed.

Sherlock almost imperceptibly nodded to himself, and then he pulled himself together to follow John's lead and focus on the matter at hand, coldly casting aside what had been. When he lifted his gaze again, composed despite his inebriation, the process of silently accepting that the client's entrance had marked the definite end of everything that might have been, was well under way and would be completed the moment they would leave 221B with the young woman in approximately ten minutes.

It was time to focus.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the infamous promo pic here: http://junejuly15.tumblr.com/post/74038587844/junejuly15-i-dont-mind
> 
> Thank you for reading and letting me wallow in my pining-Sherlock feelings :)  
> See you!  
> JJ xx


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